Anthesis of Sadness
Chapter 62: The Envelope of the Last Breath

Chapter 62: The Envelope of the Last Breath

I woke up in my suite, come morning, without the slightest memory of falling asleep.

The notebook was still there, open on the coffee table. The pen abandoned. The bottle, empty. The armchair tilted like a discreet witness of the night. But I was standing. And still alive.

That morning, calmer than the others, bore no burden. Not yet.

I crossed the silent suite to the back, where the private pool awaited me. Carved into the black stone, it smoked gently under the red glow of dawn. A thin stream of water fell in a cascade against the wall, fed by an underground spring—hot, mineral, soft like a hand on the back.

I let my clothes slide to the floor, then plunged into the water. Perfect heat. Heavy silence. And in that silence, a rare thing: peace. I stayed for a long while, eyes closed. I thought of nothing. I wanted nothing.

I finally got out, skin reddened, muscles loosened. And there, folded carefully on a stone bench, my kimono awaited me. The regenerating kimono, alive, sometimes a little too silent. Always clean. Always at the perfect temperature.

I put it on slowly. The fabric slid over my shoulders like a familiar memory. It hugged my skin, fluttered for a moment as if it breathed, then settled. A beat. A pulse. As if it had recognized me again. I pulled the belt. I closed the collar. And I became myself again.

The morning tray was already set up in the main room, on the coffee table, near the balcony. The ritual of the Crimson Obsidian, precise, without a word. Cut fruits, still warm bread, roc eggs, black tea, purple juice.

And Lysara. Already seated, straight, eyes in the light, her cup of juice between her hands. I sat down. We did not speak. But we ate. Quickly. Silently. Almost... in rhythm.

I bit into a fruit. She did too. I took a second bite, faster. She too. And soon... a duel. A real battle, with juicy pulp and stifled laughter.

Then a smile took me by surprise. Lysara barely raised her eyes. The start of a smile. Cold, discreet, almost absent. But... present. And we laughed. A little. Not loud. But really.

The tray emptied, the cups almost dry, I snapped my watch against my palm. 4:02 at dawn. Perfect. I straightened up, readjusting my kimono. And we left the suite, ready to face the black city.

The day passed quietly. Surprisingly quietly. Olfred was already there at the bottom of the inn, punctual as the shadow of a clock. Always straight, always polite, always one step behind me—perfectly invisible when needed, but always there when I needed him.

He didn’t need to write down my requests: he remembered them. And executed them without comment, without emotion, without fault. Information? He had already found it. A rare metal? He had already negotiated the right price. A visit to the forge? He arranged it without even asking me for a time.

I wasn’t used to being served. But I wasn’t going to complain.

Lysara followed us, silent, attentive, one step behind me—like a shadow without warmth. But her eyes often slid toward me. And sometimes, I felt them linger a second too long.

I made some purchases. Some scouting. Asked to see ancient weapons, artifacts, locked grimoires. All this, Olfred arranged with clinical discretion. And me... I let it happen. Because for once, the war waited. And that day, I savored the luxury of calm.

The night of Zagnaroth fell like a flow of embers. The sky was nothing but a black ceiling split with red.

After the meal, Olfred was already waiting for us in the inn’s hall, impassive as usual.

— The Lord is ready, he said simply.

— Good, I replied.

I knew what it meant. Tonight, Lysara was going to receive the armor. The one the fire had dreamed for her. The one forged by Xagros himself.

We descended into the depths. Stairs carved into the rock, engraved with runes that pulsed at our passage. The heat thickened. The air became dense, metallic, almost alive.

And then... the doors opened.

The Heart-Forge. A world in itself. Bridges suspended above an ocean of lava. Chains descended from the ceiling like frozen tentacles.

And there, in the center, Xagros. The Lord of the Furnace. Sovereign of the flames. Forger of the living.

He did not speak immediately. He looked at us. His gaze did not weigh on me. It went toward her. Lysara. She had stopped a few steps from the altar. She was observing. And in front of her... the armor.

Xagros, in a grave tone:

— The Envelope of the Last Breath. Born of fire. Forged in will.

It rested there, placed on a circular pedestal, like a fetal statue. Its metal—alive. Its heart—burning, slowly, like a contained forge.

I felt something move. Not around me. In her.

Xagros stepped closer with a heavy step. His voice rolled like an echo of ancient volcanoes.

— This armor was not given to you. It will choose you.

Lysara did not reply. She stepped forward, without a word. Her face remained impassive. But her hands... slightly outstretched.

— It will burn everything you refuse to be. It will reject everything that is not yours. And if you lie... it will break you, said Xagros.

She nodded slowly.

I stood there. I did not move. I did not dare. Because deep down, I didn’t know if she was going to come back.

She placed her hand on the armor.

A rumble rose. The chains vibrated. The lava foamed. And the Noctifer awakened.

The armor dislocated, slowly, plate by plate. It did not lay on her. It surrounded her. Absorbed her. Fused.

I saw her disappear under the living metal. Her hair swallowed, her skin covered. Her breath caught for a second.

Then...

Silence.

She reopened her eyes.

Using identification, I saw:

Identification (Adept) | name: The Envelope of the Last Breath | Rank: Mythic | This is not armor... It’s a piece of hell that has decided to protect its bearer.

And me... I stepped back.

Then... I laughed.

— AHAHAHAH! Ah... ahahah... What a masterpiece.

My voice echoed in the space, distorted by the forge. I laughed with shock. With tension. With fascination.

— Look at you... it’s... it’s perfect, damn it!

She slowly turned her head toward me. Her eyes were still there. But framed by the metal, they seemed deeper. Almost unfathomable.

She did not answer. She did not smile.

And me, I laughed again, a bit lower. Like a madman happy to have seen a monster he loves come to life.

Then, slowly, as if listening to something inside herself, Lysara moved her fingers. Her arm rose, fluid, without hitch. And the armor... changed.

The plates began to slide, to close, to glide over each other in a ballet of silent metal. The red reflections softened, the lines became more supple, less warlike.

And in front of me, the armor faded, reshaping itself into a black kimono, almost identical to the one she wore before. A living fabric, still made of Noctifer, but of simple elegance, fitting her body with the same sinister perfection.

Matching mine.

She stood there, straight, impassive, as if nothing had changed. And yet, everything had changed.

I approached. She barely raised her eyes. No expression. No resistance.

And me, without thinking, I placed my hand on her head. Slowly. Gently. A gesture older than words. A gesture one makes to a child, a sister, a thing one protects.

She did not move. But I felt something, under the metal, under the surface. Something warm. Alive.

I then turned around, and without a word, opened my magic satchel.

I then turned around, and without a word, opened my magic satchel.

— Wait...

I rummaged for a few seconds. And I pulled it out. An entire barrel of dark wood, bound with engraved black metal. As soon as it was set down, it vibrated softly against the stone.

— This is what we need.

The vendor had spoken to me of this wine as a liquid legend: "Outpouring of the Twelfth Moon" – Grand Cru of Irr’Ia. Black wine with indigo highlights, aged in barrels of living wood, harvested from vines hanging on the cliffs of Zar’Vul. Aromas of ink, burnt blackberry... and forgotten memories.

One glass is enough to make you feel like you’re floating inside your own skull for a few seconds.

I had wanted a bottle, initially. But thinking of Xagros’s build... I resigned myself to taking the entire barrel. Madness. 45 Varkh. But for that night... it was worth it.

I also took out a bottle of Ash-Tree Bud juice for Lysara, still sealed, and a selection of snacks prepared especially for the descent into the forge:

Candied Cendrite Fangs with shadow sugar: small crunchy pieces, sweet-bitter in taste, that crackle slightly in the mouth.

Smoked meat braids from the Maleforn brazier: strands of meat intertwined with spectral red pepper, served warm.

Black-Blood Nuts coated in lava fig pulp: sweet, slightly astringent, they leave a lingering warmth on the tongue.

Sweetened charcoal rolls: soft, scented with infernal resin, the crust leaves a black dust on the fingers.

I took out three cups. Black. Fine. Hand-carved. And I turned to Xagros.

— Lord of the Furnace... let’s drink. Let’s celebrate this masterpiece.

Xagros stared at me. His incandescent gaze pierced me like a blade. A silence. Then, slowly, he approached.

— You are far more insolent than the others... he murmured.

But he took the cup. And held it out to me.

— So be it. Let’s drink.

I filled the glasses. The wine flowed like molten shadow, deep indigo, with violet highlights swirling slowly. In the forge’s light, it shone almost like an inverted sky.

I raised my cup. Lysara raised hers. Xagros too. And we drank.

The wine gripped me from the first sip. A taste of blackberries, damp embers, a night written in ink of oblivion. My head spun gently, just enough to make me feel outside of myself. Not lost. Just... floating.

I looked at Lysara. She drank the juice in silence, her fingers perfectly wrapped around the glass. A smile on her lips.

And Xagros? He drank. Then grunted softly.

— It’s almost insulting... that it’s this good.

And there, in the Heart-Forge of Zagnaroth, between lava and metal, we toasted. A suspended moment. Like a crack in destiny. The wine slid down our throats like an inverted prayer.

And yet... it wasn’t the taste that lingered. It was the silence between sips. That of a millennial blacksmith, a lost human, and a creature born of mimicry. Three beings who should never have raised their glasses together. But who did. Here. Now.

I looked at Xagros. His body seemed sculpted from rock, but his gaze had stopped being sharp. He was... calm. Tired, perhaps. Or simply present.

Lysara drank her juice slowly, eyes fixed on the lava below. Her fingers brushed the rim of the cup, almost thoughtfully. She did not speak. But she was not absent. And in her silence, I saw something rare: a space opening up, within her, for us.

I smiled, without laughing this time. And I understood.

Here, in the burning entrails of the world, something was being born. Not an alliance. Not a debt. Not a blood pact. A friendship. Pure. Unexpected. Cold and beautiful like a shard of ice fallen into the lava, and which, instead of disappearing, resists.

I took another sip. The wine’s reflections rippled in my cup like the last memories of a dream.

For a moment, I wanted that moment to last. To stretch on, between the forge and oblivion. But I knew. Nothing lasts here.

That’s why I held on to it.